


Crisis of Conscience

by rosweldrmr



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: M/M, Unrequited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2016-03-14
Packaged: 2018-05-26 18:02:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6249937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosweldrmr/pseuds/rosweldrmr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Asher tries (and fails) to convince himself that Connor doesn't affect him. | One-sided Connor/Asher and mentions of canon Connor/Oliver.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crisis of Conscience

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ivorygraves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivorygraves/gifts).



> inspired by [this gifset](http://rosweldrmr.tumblr.com/post/141047630882):
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Asher doesn’t give a shit, not a single fuck. Connor can ram his tongue down as many fucking cock stained throats as he fucking wants. There is no part of him, not a single fucking inch of him, that gives a shit.

At least, that was Asher tells himself as he watches Connor pull Oliver into a heated kiss. 

That’s what Asher tells himself as he tries to eradicate the warmth of Connor’s shoulder from his side. The warmth that seeped through Connor’s suit is scalding, now that the air around Asher has turned sour and cold.

The stucco column at his back is rough, and Asher thinks maybe he’s dying. Maybe he’s a fucking wreck. Maybe there is something so irrevocably  _ broken _ in him that the sight of Connor and Oliver could cause him physical pain. 

Because he can tell himself that it doesn’t matter all he wants. He can pretend that it isn’t killing him, to be so close, to be reminded of what he shouldn’t want, but in the end the only one who winds up hurt is him. He’s the one who has to nurse the hollowness in his chest with drink after drink and prowl the room like a predator for the quickest, sloppiest fuck he can nail down.

In an effort to purge himself of… whatever this is, he has had to lower all his standards.

Or maybe his standards are just higher than they used to be? And he doesn’t have to wonder who inspired that change either. Because fuck Connor and he goddamn glorious beard and soulful eyes and fucking ridiculous smile. Like, who needed that? Who even cared what Connor smelled like at 6:30AM in his best suit? Who cared what he sounded like when he was passed out on a stack of papers? Who the fucking fuck gave one goddamn shit about how his shoulder felt under Asher’s arm as he jumped up and down, fisting the fabric of Connor’s suit in his hands?

No one gave a shit. He didn’t give a shit. It didn’t fucking matter. Connor fucking Walsh and his fucking tongue could fondle as many fuckboys as he fucking wanted. Let them line the fucking block for a chance to pound his ass.

Or maybe Connor was the one who did the pounding? Would these theoretical fuckboys line the block for a chance to be fucked? Would he? 

“Ugh,” Asher groaned and turned away from the sight of Connor mouth-fucking Oliver into whatever passed for homo foreplay. His hands fisted at his side, Asher hated himself for whatever the fuck  _ this _ was. This… this feeling inside him. This raw ache that made his chest burn and his heart constrict. He had enough shit to worry about in his life. A fucking crisis of conscience about some pretty-boy baseball euphemism was the exact opposite of what Asher needed right now.

So, with the fading imprint of Connor still lingering on his skin like some fucking 11 year old sissy-girl’s goosebumps, Asher leaves them to get indecent in public. Because he doesn’t care, it doesn’t bother him. That twinge in his chest doesn’t mean anything. He’s probably just got indigestion. Or he’s allergic to  _ sentimentality _ or whatever the fuck that kiss even was.

Because he doesn’t care. Asher doesn’t give a shit. Not a single fuck. Not about Connor and his hands or his lips or his eyes or his voice when it was rough and almost gentle or what Connor sounded like when he said Asher’s name in the fake-seduction tone he used when he was being a prick. 

It didn’t matter. And not because Connor was kissing Oliver. Not because Asher was jealous or pining or any of that shit. No, it didn’t matter because Asher fucking Millstone didn’t give a single god damn about something he didn’t want anyway. And he didn’t, want it. He didn’t want Connor.

He didn’t.

Fuck, he didn’t.

Asher cringed and reached for the nearest drink. He downed the lukewarm beer in a few wet gulps and set his sights on other, more attainable, conquests. The room was ripe with opportunity. He just needed to get back out there, remind the ladies why he was the best lay they’d ever have.

He just needed one more drink. Just one more, to wash away the memory of Connor’s hand glued to the back of Oliver’s neck as he pulled the little dweeb in for a completely cringe-worthy kiss. Just one more drink to remember that he didn’t care. Just one more drink to fill that hole in his chest that he could feel cave in as he leaned against that pillar. 

Just one more drink, and he would be fine. Totally fine. Unaffected. 

Ready to go. Down to fuck.

Just, in another minute.

Just one more minute, one more breath, and the pain in his lungs would disappear. Just one more second of feeling like utter shit before he would remember that he was a fucking pro.

Just… a little longer. And he would forget what it felt like to watch Connor kiss someone else. It couldn’t last forever, right? This sensation of dread, this pain that left him breathless, it wouldn’t last much longer. 

Right?

Right?

**Author's Note:**

> I have literally watched 3 episodes of this show, but this ship continues to fuck me up thanks to Tumblr and Ivy.


End file.
